Yesterday morning the Murki Homestead burnt to the ground. Four generations of Alexanders lived there, from my great-grandfather’s time through to my generation; 1893-2016. It was here that the early beginnings of our business were established, and over the years the house grew to accommodate successive families. Beneath its roof men and women discussed the buying of land, debated the moods of mother nature, and deliberated the quality of wool clips, stock, crops and the vagaries of markets. Men left for war, women were courted, deaths were mourned, babies christened, and childhoods formed by wide open spaces. There was love, laughter and tears and wonderful nights seated around the dining-room table where yarns were spun like gold.
Murki Station was sold in 2016 as part of our rural property downsizing due to my father’s failing health. Up until that time it continued to be the centre of business and life for those of us privileged to be involved. The memories live on.